"Fast-paced, wonderfully inventive stories, and vividly rendered characters." —Library Journal
St. Ravenby Jo Beverley
From the New York Times bestselling author of Hazard—a sizzling and sensual novel of fortune and fate…
A Lady with a Quest…
Cressida Mandeville agrees to Lord Crofton’s vile proposal, but secretly she has other plans. She will trick the loathsome man, find her father’s hidden wealth, and save her family from/b>/b>/b>
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From the New York Times bestselling author of Hazard—a sizzling and sensual novel of fortune and fate…
A Lady with a Quest…
Cressida Mandeville agrees to Lord Crofton’s vile proposal, but secretly she has other plans. She will trick the loathsome man, find her father’s hidden wealth, and save her family from ruin. All goes well, until a daring highwayman stops their carriage, whirls Cressida up onto his dark horse, and demands a kiss….
A Duke with a Conscience…
Tristan Tregallows, Duke of St. Raven, doesn’t plan to rescue a damsel in distress, but he can hardly leave an innocent in Crofton’s power. One kiss confirms his prisoner’s innocence, but instead of grateful, she is furious. When he discovers that Cressida is on a quest, one that will take her into the darkest parts of Regency society, St. Raven knows he must become her partner and protector. But he doesn’t expect the dangers to his heart….
Read an Excerpt
Summer 1816. North of London
Still as a statue in the full moon’s light the highwayman watched the road. He controlled his mount without effort and without bit, and when the horse stirred, tossing its head, no jingle broke the quiet of the night woods.
His clothing was dark as the shadows, his face concealed behind a black mask and a delicate beard and mustache in the style of Charles I. He would be invisible if not for the splash of a sweeping white plume on his broad Cavalier hat.
That plume was the signature of Le Corbeau, the bold French rascal who called himself the Crow and claimed the right to peck at those who traveled the night roads north from London.
Though no one else was could be seen, the Crow did not fly alone. He had men stationed north and south to warn of danger and of approaching prey. He waited for their signals in stillness except for the stirring of his feather in the breeze.
Then, at last, an owl hoot with a strange pattern at the end floated from the south. A victim approached. A suitable one. Not the well-armed mail coach or poor pickings on a swaybacked horse or in a cart. What came from the south was undefended but worth the effort, and would be here soon.
He listened until he heard the pounding of fast horses. With a sharp whistle of his own, he surged out of the trees and down the road head-on to the coach and pair.
The startled coachman dragged on his reins. By the time the coach stopped, Tristan Tregallows, Duke of St. Raven, commanded the two people in the coach with his cocked pistol, and two colleagues kept guard nearby.
Heart pounding in a way both alarming and pleasurable, Tris thought this was almost as good as sex. Pity this was his first and last night for the game.
“Monsieur, madame,” he greeted with a slight inclination of his head. He continued in the French-accented English of the real Le Corbeau. “Pleeze to step out of ze carriage.”
As he spoke, he assessed his victims as best he could, given the dim interior.
Terror or threatened apoplexy might have driven him off, but he had a fashionable young couple at gunpoint. The lady sat closest to his side of the coach, and she seemed more furious than frightened. Her mouth was set, and her direct, pale eyes showed outrage at his attack.
“Damn your eyes, you gallows bait!” the man snarled. The voice confirmed him well-born, which was excellent. He would not miss half his money.
“Zat is in ze hands of le Bon Dieu and ze magistrates, monsieur. You, on ze other hand, are in mine. Sortez! You know my reputation. I will neither kill you nor take your all—unless,” Tris added, trying for silky menace, “you continue to disobey me.”
“Oh, get out and let’s get this over with,” ordered the man, shoving the woman so hard that she banged against the inside of the coach.
Her head snapped toward her partner as if she’d blister him, but then she turned back to open the door, head bowed, apparently meek as milk.
As Tris backed Caesar a few steps to make sure he couldn’t be jumped, his mind danced with curiosity. The man was a cur. It seemed the woman might think the same, yet she obeyed. It could be an unhappy marriage, but such wives rarely rebelled over little things.
He tried to shut off curiosity. He didn’t have time for a mystery. Even so late, on a night with a good moon another vehicle could appear at any time.
The woman climbed down the steps, one hand holding her pale skirt out of the way, the other using the open door for balance. Half an eye on the man, St. Raven still made a number of instant assessments.
She tended to roundness rather than slender elegance.
She was graceful in this awkward situation.
She was dressed in a fine evening gown under a light shawl. Unusual for traveling. Damn. Perhaps they were called away to a deathbed.
She had a neat ankle.
When she arrived on the road and looked up at him, he noted a heart-shaped face fringed with dark curls frothing out along the front edge of a fashionable evening turban of striped cloth. She wore pearls at her neck and ears.
Modest pearls, however. He wished she showed signs of fabulous wealth. He supposed he’d have to take them, or at least part of them. Damnation. Would returning them destroy the purpose of this enterprise?
He turned his full attention to the stocky man who followed her. His top boots, breeches, jacket, and beaver hat might seem casual to some, but Tris recognized the height of fashion for a certain sort—a sporting Corinthian. The striped waistcoat, the flamboyant cravat, and the cut of the coat confirmed it and sent a warning: The man’s heavy build would be all muscle.
Then the moon shone full on the man’s sneering face—chunky, wide in the jaw, and with a nose that looked to have been broken more than once.
Viscount Crofton, a man in his early thirties of moderate wealth and expensive tastes, especially in women. Or rather, in quantity of women. He was a bruising rider and pugilist who was generally to be found at any event promising sport—with men or women—and with a preference for the rough.
Crofton had attended a gentlemen’s party at Tris’s house once. It had been made clear that he would never be welcome again. It would be a personal pleasure to distress Crofton, but the man was dangerous, and needed watching.
Tris reminded himself not to be distracted, but some detail niggled. Something that might be relevant here.
He brushed it aside. He had a simple task in hand—to stage a holdup so that the man in jail as Le Corbeau would be proved innocent.
“Your purses, pleeze,” he said, but couldn’t resist another glance at the woman. Crofton wasn’t married, but dress, demeanor, and jewelry spoke of a lady, not a whore. Did he have a sister?
Crofton pulled a handful of banknotes out of his pocket and tossed them onto the ground, where they fluttered in the breeze. “Grovel for them like the pig you are.”
“Crow,” Tris corrected, tempted to force the man to pick them up with his teeth. “Madame?”
“I have no purse.”
A cool, educated voice. A lady for sure, and the moonlight painted her features with white marble purity.
“Then it will have to be your earrings, che[aarie.” Instinct clamored that something was wrong, and he couldn’t ride away with this mystery unsolved. The thought of a well-bred lady in Crofton’s clutches revolted him.
He glanced at the woman, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was gazing at the moonlit countryside, denying his existence even as she took the pearl drops from her ears and tossed them down by the money.
Then she looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips tight. The mysterious lady wasn’t frightened. She was furious.
She had to be with Crofton by choice to be so angry at the interruption. On the other hand, he couldn’t forget the way Crofton had shoved her and her instinctive, outraged reaction.
And then, the elusive detail came to him.
A week or two ago, Crofton had won a property in a game of cards. Stokeley Manor in Cambridgeshire. To celebrate, he was throwing a party—an orgy, to be precise. Tris had received a presumptuous invitation, and unless he was mistaken, the event began tomorrow night.
So, Crofton was on his way there, and he wouldn’t be taking his sister with him, or any other respectable lady. Unlikely as it seemed, the moonlit madonna had to be a high-priced whore. Not all whores were sluts, and some used a ladylike appearance as part of their stock-in-trade.
Experience and instinct, however, told Tris that this woman was no such thing. There was one way to try her out.
Le Corbeau was a foolish, romantic sort of highwayman, and he sometimes offered to return his loot for a kiss. A lot could be learned from the way a woman kissed.
Tris smiled at her. “Since my wages have so unfortunately fallen in ze dirt, ma belle, I must ask you to pick zem up for me.”
He thought she was going to refuse. The moonlight did not show color, but he knew a flush of anger heated those rounded cheeks—anger that tightened, her lips and confirmed his fears. It was the sort of cold, righteous anger no whore he’d known would ever permit herself.
“Do it,” Crofton snapped, “and get rid of the cur.”
She flinched under the order, but again she submitted, walking forward and then dipping down to pick up the money and earrings. She didn’t walk like a whore, either.
Tris didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
He’d heard that Crofton’s entertainments leaned to the crude and that he had a taste for debauching virgins—the less willing, the better. Might he have found a way to force a well-bred virgin to be the centerpiece of his celebration?
The woman straightened and approached the horse, holding out the money and jewelry.
He looked down into steady, despising eyes. Who the devil did she think she was? Joan of Arc? She was on her way to an orgy with Crofton, and she’d be wiser to be looking for help than treating a possible rescuer like a slug.
He moved Caesar forward a step. The woman flinched back, her stony composure breaking for a moment. Afraid of horses? When her lips relaxed, however, they showed a temptingly full bow. Kissing her wouldn’t be any sacrifice at all.
He remembered to check on Crofton. Damn stupid to have been distracted. The man seemed to be simply observing, amused. A bad sign. Tris moved Caesar forward another step, and again she backed away.
“If you keep retreating, che[aarie, we will be here all night.”
Her lips tightened again. “Good. Then someone will come along and arrest you.”
“Not in time. Ze money?”
She set her chin and stepped forward, holding the money and earrings up and out, coming no closer than she had to. The contrast between her bravado and her obvious fear of Caesar touched his heart.
He took the loot, and she hastily backed away. He separated the banknotes roughly in half and tossed part back on the ground. “I beggar no man.”
Crofton laughed. “That amount wouldn’t beggar me, cur. Are we done, then?”
Tris looked at the woman again. “I will return ze rest and your earrings for a kiss, che[aarie.”
She took another step back, but Crofton pushed her forward. “Go on, Cherry, kiss him. I’ll let you keep the blunt if it’s a good one.”
Tris saw her inhale a long, angry breath, sensed fire behind her eyes, but again she did not protest. What hold did Crofton have over her?
“Well?” he asked.
“If I must,” she replied so coldly that he felt he should shiver. He suppressed a grin. He liked her spirit.
He extended his gloved hand. “I cannot risk dismounting, che[aarie, so you must come up.”
Panic staggered her then. “On the horse?”
“On the horse.”
Cressida Mandeville stared up at the costumed madman on the huge horse, knowing she had finally reached her breaking point. She had struck a loathsome deal with Lord Crofton, she had set out to be his mistress for a week, she had endured some pawing in the carriage without throwing up. She would not, however, could not get up on a horse.
“Keep the money,” she snapped.
“Kiss him!” Crofton snarled.
Frozen by that, she did not react in time when the highwayman holstered his pistol, moved the horse forward, and leaned to snatch her up into the saddle in front of him.
She swallowed a scream because she wouldn’t show that sort of fear, but when she landed on the horse and it sidled beneath her, she clutched the enemy’s jacket, her eyes tight shut, and prayed.
“Zere, zere, petite, I assure you it is not so bad up here.”
The amusement in his voice stung her pride, and indeed, now she was up and the horse was still, it didn’t seem too bad—as long as she had the robber’s big, solid body to hang on to.
She made herself crack her eyes open. All she could see was dark clothing. Her head was buried against warmth and wool, surprisingly surrounded by the smell of clean clothing and spice.
A strange crow, indeed.
Since pride was all she had left, Cressida made herself release her clutch and straighten her spine. Having achieved that, she turned her head to see what Crofton was doing.
Nothing, because another highwayman had the area covered by two pistols. Not a careless crow, but Crofton wouldn’t interfere, anyway. He must be finding this amusing.
Cressida remembered attending the theater in London some months ago and seeing a play that featured this rascally highwayman. There he turned out to be the hero. Reality, of course, was very different.
All the same, given the choice between the two men...
The highwayman seemed to have moved back on the horse so that she was sideways on the saddle in front of him, but even so, she was crushed against his body. He chuckled, and she felt it.
Jupiter! She was nestled against him in the most intimate way. Her bottom was... well... between his thighs, her legs over one of them. She felt, in a most extraordinary way, the movements of his legs that caused the huge horse to begin to back, swaying beneath her.
She clutched again. “What are you doing?” It was almost a screech.
“Putting a little more distance between us and your so gallant escort, che[aarie. If I am to pay you due attention, I do not want him quite so close.”
The words “gallant escort” bit with sarcasm.
She fixed her eyes on his jacket and not on the world moving around them. “You have no cause to sneer at him. You are a thief.”
“So ardent in his defense.”
She had to look. They were almost in the trees. She glanced back. They were five yards or more from the coach. “Stop!”
“So imperious. I adore a commanding woman.”
He rolled the r in a way that seemed to shiver through her. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t kiss this man! She had to do something to escape. But what?
Le Corbeau had holstered his pistol to control her. If she were a true heroine, wouldn’t she grasp that opportunity?
And do what?
Hit him? A fine lot of good that would do. He’d scooped her up like a child.
And what was she going to save herself from?
From a kiss.
Only a kiss.
A mere nothing compared with the fate she’d accepted. All London talked of Le Corbeau, and some ladies drove up and down these roads hoping for an encounter and a rascal’s kiss.
A kiss was nothing.... But then the horse sidled, and she choked back a cry. She had to kiss him on a horse?
If her imagination had ever stretched so far, this would have been the most impossible, most intolerable thing ever expected of her. She saw no choice, however. Given that, she would not be a coward.
She swallowed, then turned her head up to the masked and bearded face. “May we have done with this, sir, so I can proceed with my journey?”
She saw him smile and realized that he might be handsome. His lips were certainly firm, yet in a mysterious way, sensual. Like a painting of a god of pleasure.
Those lips lowered, and she almost went cross-eyed, trying to keep the danger in sight before it reached her. Shutting her eyes, she felt his lips press against hers.
His face hair tickled.
She tried to pull back, but his hand slid behind her head, confining her. His lips parted, and his tongue touched wetly against her.
Trapped by his strong arms and his controlling hand, she was helpless and she hated it. What’s more, this was no sort of kiss she had ever imagined. This was nothing to do with tenderness or affection. It was a contest between two vile men, and she wished them both to Hades.
As his lips moved against hers, she sat perfectly still. She would give neither of them the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. If she admitted the truth, she was also still because any sudden movement might upset the monstrous beast beneath her.
The man chuckled, then licked her lips. She jerked back, then stilled again, but her hands became fists. Oh, but she longed to fight, to pummel, to claw at the monstrous beast who assaulted her.
But then he moved back and looked at her.
And Cressida knew she had made a mistake.
She stared back. What had she done? Could she correct it?
He looked at Crofton. Then he pushed the forgotten earrings and banknotes down the low front of her gown. Before she could express her shock at that, he gave a sharp whistle, turned the horse, and rode into the woods, taking her with him.
Shock upon shock stole her voice for a moment, but then she screamed, “Stop it! What are you doing? Help!“
He pressed her face hard to his chest so she could hardly breathe, never mind shout, as the beast pounded beneath her, carrying her away. Now she fought, with arms and legs, trying to find a place to scratch, to hurt. She’d rather fall off the horse than be stolen away like this.
And her plan.
Dear heaven, her plan!
She heard the man curse, and the horse stopped, sidling and jerking. She freed a hand and yanked the highwayman’s beard as hard as she could.
It half ripped off in her hand.
“Damnation!” He grabbed her hands. “Stay still, woman!”
She flailed and kicked as best she could. “Let me go!”
The horse began to rear and was forced down. The man’s grip on her wrists tightened to the point of pain. She tried to land a solid kick on the horse.
Her ankles were caught by two strong hands.
“Have your hands full, have you?” drawled a fashionable voice.
“Stop laughing and think of something to tie her up with.” Le Corbeau’s spoke in the same aristocratic English accent.
That and awareness of a new enemy stunned Cressida to stillness, but then “tie her up” sank in, and she struggled again. She opened her mouth to shriek, and a gloved hand covered it.
“Know when you’re beaten, you fool. I wish you no harm. In fact, I’m saving you from a fate worse than death. You’ll thank me when you come to your senses.”
She glared up at him, longing to scream her opinion of his interfering arrogance, but all she could manage was a growl.
Despite all her kicking and squirming, her evening shoes were snatched away, her garters—her garters!—untied, and her silk stocking stripped off. Then her ankles were tied. Moments later, her wrists were bound, as well.
“We need to blindfold her,” her infernal captor said.
She tried to fight, but the bonds and despair turned her feeble. Tears stung at her eyes as they were covered by a cloth tied behind her head.
Oh Lord—oh Lord, to be safe home again as she had been until so recently, with no deeper concern than the choice of jam for breakfast.
“Think that counted as a holdup?” asked the other man, still sounding amused.
“It’ll damn well have to. I’m not doing this again.”
“Perhaps you should mind what you say, the lady not having anything blocking her ears as yet.”
“Damn it all to Hades....”
“Perhaps you should mind your language.” The second man sounded as if he was laughing.
Then the horse jolted, and they were off again. Her mouth was free and she could have screamed, but for the moment she didn’t dare. She couldn’t even clutch now. She was entirely dependent on her captor’s strong arms.
“Where?” asked the other man.
“The house. That’s why she’s blindfolded.”
A house. A house that mustn’t be seen.
Fear turned her cold. Le Corbeau was not a Frenchman, but an Englishman. A well-born Englishman. He’d do anything to save himself from the hangman. Killing her would be a mere nothing.
Lord, save me. Lord, save me. Lord, save me, she prayed with every sickening jolt of the horse beneath her, with every crush of her captor’s body. He was her terror now, not the horse.
She was powerless, helpless, completely at the mercy of this mass of muscle and power.
She was going to vomit.
Would it choke her?
Would anyone care?...
The horse stopped.
Cressida shuddered and gave thanks, trying to swallow the taste of bile. The man moved, taking the pressure from her, settling her to sit sideways on the smooth and slippery saddle.
Then he was gone.
She was alone—blind, bound, and unbalanced in the cold air. The horse moved.
Even as she screamed, strong hands caught her waist. She cried out again, this time in thanks for the strong arms beneath her, then for the strong body she was held against.
The monstrous beast again, but this one was solid and safe—and two-legged.
From her right the other man said, “Dear lady, please don’t be afraid.” He sounded sincerely concerned.
But it was the highwayman who held her, carried her. To where? To what? New fears should be boiling up, but it was as if terror was exhausted. She could only pray.
No. She could think. “Knowledge is power,” Sir Francis Bacon had said, and she needed any power she could grasp.
She could hear, so she sorted through sounds. They’d left the horses behind, and the men must be walking on soft earth, because there was no sound of boots.
She could smell. No smell of horse, either, but a slight whiff that might be a pigsty not very far away. A farm? And sandalwood, of course, so common to her nostrils now that she hardly noticed it.
Then the men’s feet made a crunching noise. Gravel? No farm had a gravel driveway. They were approaching a house of substance.
She was blindfolded because of the house, so she wouldn’t recognize it. No, so she wouldn’t recognize it again if she returned with the magistrates. That did suggest that they expected to let her go eventually.
After they’d had their wicked way with her?
She’d thought such things the stuff of Minerva novels!
They stopped. She heard a click. A latch?
Yes. The door didn’t squeak, but it made a slight sound as it opened, and she was moved from outside to in. No breeze. Staler air. Polish. Faint memories of a meal. The steady tick of a large clock and wood floors beneath boots.
Fear trembled back into life. She didn’t want to be inside, inside his house. “Please...,” she said.
“Hush. Make noise and I’ll gag you. I’ll put her in my room.”
The other man must still be there. Did that offer more safety or more danger?
With a shift of balance, Le Corbeau began to carry her upstairs.
To his room.
To his bedroom.
Cressida prayed. With Crofton it would have been vile, but it would have been her choice and for her purpose. Was she to lose her virtue to a thief’s whim?
Another door opening. Carpet under boots. A stronger smell of sandalwood.
She was lowered onto something soft.
Onto his bed.
—Reprinted from St. Raven by Jo Beverley by permission of Signet, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2003, Jo Beverley. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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"Fast-paced, wonderfully inventive stories, and vividly rendered characters." —Library Journal
Meet the Author
Jo Beverley is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today. She is a four-time winner of Romance Writers of America's cherished RITA Award and one of only a handful of members in the RITA Hall of Fame. She has also recieved the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Born in England, she now lives with her husband and two sons in Victoria, British Columbia, just a ferry ride away from Seattle, WA.
- Date of Birth:
- September 22, 1947
- Place of Birth:
- Morecambe, Lancashire, UK
- Degrees in English and American Studies, Keele University, Staffs, 1970
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In 1816, notorious highwayman ¿Le Corbeau¿ stops the coach of depraved Lord Crofton as the aristocrat journeys to his recently won (in cards) Stokely Manor accompanied by Cressida Mandeville. Le Corbeau demands a kiss from Cressida, but when their lips lock he realizes she is an innocent. Unable to leave her at the mercy of a nasty decadent like Crofton, Le Corbeau abducts Cressida and takes her to his estate. Le Corbeau turns out to be Tristan Tregallows, the Duke of ST. RAVEN. Though he risks his scheme to free the real Le Corbeau from incarceration, Tris learns the truth why Cressida accompanied Crofton. He honorably agrees to help her retrieve an Indian statue containing jewels from her family¿s former estate Stokely Manor. However, to do so they must attend a debauched masquerade in hell hosted by the devilish Crofton. Regency romance readers will relish the rousing ST. RAVEN though the three prime characters are very typical of the sub-genre. Crofton is so over the edge as a lecher, he is stand up comic hosting an orgy, but the lead couple more than make up for the villain¿s shortcomings. Tris is typical of the sub-genre as he safeguards a female stranger who he quickly admires and then loves. Cressida is also typical as the feisty independent willing to venture into hell for her heavenly cause. Any author who can weave a reference to noted medieval writer John Mandeville into her plot has to be good, but Jo Beverly is even better as she provides the audience with this pleasurable somewhat fervent historical romance. Harriet Klausner
1816 When Tristan Tregallows, Duke of St. Raven poses as the infamous highwayman Le Corbeau, and holds up a coach on a country road he suspects something is not right with the two occupants. The man, Viscount Crofton, has a reputation for debauchery and Tris cannot see any good reason why he should be in the company of an innocent young woman who is not a relative. Impulsively, Tris kidnaps this damsel in distress in order to "save her from a fate worse than death". But the woman is not suitably grateful, in fact she fights to get away, so Tris is forced to tie her up and deposit her in his hideaway home. Later, when he discovers that she is indeed in trouble, what must he do but join in on her adventure in order to help her and keep her safe? Cressida Mandeville's father had lost Stokley Manor to Viscount Crofton in a game of cards. The shock of the loss incapacitated her father, especially when he discovered that the jewels he had hidden were missing. Cressida devised a scheme to recover the jewels, which she believes to still be at the Manor. She agreed to become Crofton's mistress for a week in exchange for the return of some artifacts, one of which she is certain contains the hidden treasure. When St. Raven insists on helping her to retrieve the jewels, she is relieved to accept his assistance, especially when he tells her that she and Crofton would not have been alone, because Crofton is holding an orgy at the Manor. Together, they decide to attend the orgy and look for the jewels. Thus begins the adventures of Tris and Cressida, because of course the jewels are not so easily found. Tris will not abandon this new friend to her fate, and with the help of his friend Cary and even some assistance from the real Le Corbeau they continue their dangerous quest for the elusive treasure. Tris and Cressida's respect and admiration for each other soon evolve into love, but they know that they will have to part ways when the adventure is over because after all, he is a Duke and a notorious Rake, and she is merely a nabob's daughter. Author Jo Beverley inspires confidence in her readers that within the pages of her novels lies exciting adventure, pleasing humor and above all, soul stirring love. ST. RAVEN is a wonderful example of Ms. Beverley's outstanding work and is entertaining from first page to last. I thoroughly enjoyed accompanying them in their adventures at the orgy. St. Raven is an appealing hero who posseses a sense of mischief and adventure not found in your ordinary Regency Duke. Cressida is an intelligent, brave heroine who is just perfect for Tris. I relished the pairing of this smart couple who worked together to solve a difficult problem, and were not afraid of the risks to body and heart along the way. A must read for all regency aficionados!
Name: She has many scientific names, but Aries is what she goes by. <p> Gender: Mare <p> Pony pals: Havik. She does get around, but she only friends those who share her intrests. <p> Occupation: Planner. Aries is usually the one who plans most Weddings, Parties, And get-togethers. She takes her job very seriously and stays on top of the peak to keep it. When shes away from this, Aries usually visits the busiest parts of ponyville and keeps up with the comotion. <p> Personality: She fits the Zodiac Aries obviously well. Shes the leader, the one who guides her herd through thick and thin. Shes not quite a Leo, but holds the same chatacteristics. Aries is known to plan Parties and such, but shes not the party pony herself. Aries is very strict and takes things seriously, but overall shes a very popular, funny pony to be around. <p> Appearence: Aries is a light grey (noy a dull gray, a more lighter, calmer grey) with a pitch black mane. Aries has bright cherry red eyes and her mane is long and messy, but its styled slightly to give her a cute look. Aries does have ram horns but they arent very large, and curl slightly. (shes based off a HS character. Search 'Aradia Homestuck' into google images. Thats her ideal look. Her CM of course, is the Aries sign. <p> History: She has 12 other brothers and sisters. They are the other Zodiacs (Of course) and they all share similiar traits, but remain seperated. Aries's closest sister is Scorpio for some reason. They rarely meet eachother, but stay in touch sometimes. But theres something strange with all those Zodiac ponies. Its been rumored that Celestia herself has something to do with this strange occurance. <p> Pets: Nope. She is based of a Ram, yes, but does take fond thr animal much. <p> Im getting sick of typing.. Any further questions will be happily awnsered. Bye! _Aries_
Full Name: Princess Twilight Sunny Golden Magica Rose <p> Age: (Since she is immortal, she might be over 19) <p> Family: Rosebud (sister, alicorn) Sweet Death (Sister, alicorn) Chess Golden (Father, unicorn, passed away) Silk Magica (Mother, unicorn, passed away) <p> Nicknames: Sunny, Twilight, Twily, and in generally, PTS. <p> Friends: Firework, Nirto, Ss, and all of this ponies in MLP roleplay I roleplay. <p> Personilty: Happy, Lucky, adventous, formal, little strict and crazy. <p> Phobia: Dark rooms without no lights. <p> Likes: cakes, parties, love, books and playing. <p> Dislikes: untruthful ponies, dark (part of her phobia.) And love life who is broken. <p> Other: Ask her..... <p> And press X for a royally treats which is served by royal bulter... JK.
NAME Liberty Bell Freedom<br> <p> AGE 17, Birthday is July 4<br> <p> GENDER Mare, duh!<br> <p> SPECIES Pegasus<br> <p> COAT COLOR White<br> <p> EYE COLOR/STYLE Silvery grey/Rainbow Dash<br> <p> MANE/TAIL COLOR/STYLE Red and blue/ alternates from Rainbow Dash, Fluttershy, and Rarity style. Sometimes has it in braids<br> <p> CM A lightning bolt that looks like the American flag<br> <p> EoH Justice<br> <p> PERS funny, shy, gullible, hyper, friendly, bipolar, depressed<br> <p> OTHER can shapeshift, is also the rper for Rainbow Dash, Rose Tyler, and Fluttershy<br> <p> THEME SONG Classic by MKTO
~*~*~*~*~* Mer Face Herts! ~*~*~*~*~* -Midnight
Name: Frost Feather. But you can call me FF, or Frost, or Frosty.. whatever. <p> Species: Unicorn <p> Gender: Mare. &female <p> Age: 13 <p> Appearance: <br> Coat: Gray <br> Mane/Tail Color: Navy blue with an ice blue streak down the middle. <br> Mane/Tail Style: Similar to Fluttershy's, but shorter. <br> Eyes: Light blue, Twilight style. <br> Cutie Mark: A raven feather with frost creeping up the tip. <br> How she got it: Back when she was Darkrose, she was trying to save her friend Oswin Hooves when she died. At the time, she was somehow regenerated into Frost Feather, and her cutie mark was already there. <p> Personality: Quite possibly bipolar. Tries to be open-minded and optimistic. <p> Coltfriend: Quite possibly Black Knife. :3 <p> Friends: Autumn Leaf (even though she's gone forever :'( ), Nitro, Sweet Death (and everpony that's her), Moone, Midnight we miss you!), X/Zero/Sigma, Beats, Blazin (what happened to you?), Blue Lightning, PTS, Watsky (Come back!), Fluttershy/Rainbow Dash, Silver Star, Ice Tears, Dawn and basically everypony. <p> Favorite color: Blueish Gray. <p> Theme Song: Deae Lunae by Makkon <p> Battle Theme Song: Celestia's Origins Extended Battle Theme <p> Family: <br> King Sombra, Father/Creator <br> Icymoon, Sister, deceased, killed brutally by Chrysalis. <p> I think I've covered everything...
Name-BlazingFire<p>Age-10<p>Personality-Meet him<p>Apperance<br>Color-Red<p>Species-Alicorn/Hedgehog<p>Gender-&male<p>Likes-Guitar,TNT,Sword,Sunglasses,Fudge Ice Cream,Video Games,and others<p>Dislikes-Evil and others<p>Friends-alot
A orange version of twilight sparkle. I am her lost twin. Is an alicorn. Cm. An orange star, like twilight's except without the white.
Okay. Let's start with AL, shall we? <p> Name: Autumn Leaf <p> Gender: mare <p> Race: pegasus <p>Age: 12 <p> Mane/tail: frizzy auburnish, no style, really <p> Eyes: orangey-brown, a mix between Pinkie and Fluttershy's styles <p> Coat: beigey-browney-orangeyish <p> Friends: Frost Feather, Midnight, Moone, Vynx and MC <p> Coltfriend: you know what?... no. *tear* <p> Likes: jazz, spinach, autumn, jazz, the color brown, jazz, Germany, saxophones, rainbows, jazz, Germans, TF2 <p> Dislikes: dubstep, electronica, cats, Mary Sues, and waaaay too many other things. <p> Family: Sweet Note, mother; Staff Medley, father; Apple Tart, dead little sister; Octavia Medley, aunt <p> Cutie Mark: a leaf with two eigth notes on it <p> ST: basically all musical stuff. SHE IS TEH MUSIC PONE! <p>Theme song: too many. <p> ~~~~NOW FOR CLOVER!~~~~ <p> Name: Clover <p> Gender: filly <p> Race: earth pony <p> Age: 5 AAAAAND 7/12! <p> Mane/tail: darkish green, mostly straightish but king curly on the ends <p> Eyes: medium green, filly style(duh) <p> Coat: light green with a tinge of yellow <p> Friends: Trumble, and those other two pones <p> Crush: possibly, possibly. <p> Likes: flowers, clouds, rainbows <p> Dislikes: rain, thunder, lightning, hats, and pesty bugs that nom on her garden <p> Family: Menthe, mother <p> Cutie Mark: not yet. <p> Theme song: just imagine a major chord being held out forever. <p> ~~~~NOW FOR TWILIGHT AND RARITY!~~~~ <p> Actually, never mind. If you don't know Twilight and Rarity, why are you even here?
Name: Princess Twilight Sunny <p> Age: Unknown <p> Gender: Mare (Female) <p> Species: Alicorn Princess. <p> Family Ties: Cousin-Two Sisters of Equestria and Sister- Rosebud and Sweetie Death. <p> Stories made since June 2013: Empriess Invastion: Stolen Dreams at qm, Lost Magic at ies, Retard Life in My Fillyhood at lindo, and upcoming soon, Leafy's Wish to Team NinjaThunder. <p> Person: Happy, serious, little angry and formal. <p> RP: My little pony- st, Rainbow Guild- lugi as Leafy, Human Pokemon Team- domestic as Jocelyn, and will join other soon. <p> Biography: At farr you can see, it is in my story list, Retard Life in My Fillyhood, it tells all before I arrived here. This story tells all my RP with uni ponies to st ponies. <p> Many years of RP: One year and half.
Name: Fratele meu<p> Race: Romanian<p> Age: 18<p> Species: unicorn<p> Gender: ummmm, i'm a mare, but technically since my name means "my brother" in Romanian, i could be a colt.<br> Basically, of undetermined gender.<p> Appearance: flippity gray mane, flippity gray tail, flippity ak gun cutie mark, flippity violet eyes, flippity pale coat, flippity same as Hansel.<p> Siblings: Sora mea<p> Bewm! Like a bawss!
Sky is a tall thing pegasis. He has a dark blue cote, short blue hair with lighter blue streeks, his cutie mark is a quill and papper. His eyes are a deep perple and he wares glasses, if you want to know more just ask.
Name: Broken. Looks: a dark gray pegasus with bat wings and grayish red hair luna s1 style and red eyes rarity style. Likes: MLP, anime, sour candy, salty foods, Fairy Tail, music, writing fanfics. Dislikes: spiders, bugs, godmodding, jerks, nuts, and clop/r34. Crush: Gray from Fairy Tail and L from Death Note :3 . Theme Song: Louder than Thunder/ Quiet Like the Snow. Fave TV shows: MLP, Fairy Tail, Death Note, Black Butler, Tokyo Ghoul, Gravity Falls, and Adventure Time. CM: a broken heart with a quill stabbed through it. Pers: see for yourself. Anything else: ask.
Full Name- Princess Nymphali Sylvia Ninfia<p>Nicknames- Not many. I think just Nym.<p>Gender- Mare<p>Age- A couple months younger than the average age of the M6, whatever that is.<p>Species- Alicorn. Before you hate, I've gotten a cookie from one of the most respected mods on Google+ because I've exceeded her expectations of alicorn OCs.<p>Appearance- White coat. Mane is slightly paler than Shrek lime with a dark teal middle third stripe. The three spikes of her mane -which folds over like Cadance's but is noticeably shorter, and of course, ends with spikes- match up with the stripes. Eyes are completely basic shape and eyelash style, with viridian irises. This is also her magic aura color, like any normal unicorn magic user.<p>Cutie mark and talent- A Poké ball with dark magenta top and black bottom. The middle division between the two halves and the button is just transparent space, and as it's my headcanon that dye doesn't affect cutie marks, if she dyed her coat it would go through the transparent space. Just as an example. <br>Umm, I forgot about this post for a while so I forgot where I was. Y'all know me, right? Oh, I'm Cheeto Dust on G+ and Nymphal1 on DA if you wanna find me.
Name:Dusk<br> Gender:mare<br> Race:pegasus<br> Mane/tail:dark blue and an orangey/gold color<br> Eyes:pale pink<br> Coat:dark cobalt blue<br> CM: a doublade iin front of a gold sun covered by two clouds<br> Other:ask
Name: Batman (LOL NOPE) <p> Age: 10 and 8 months and 11 days as of today! <p> Gender: SpiderMARE <p> Appearance: Electric blue pegasus with a short aqua and teal mane (Purple Lines of Sanzu as well), neon green Pinkie style eyes <p> CM: A Master Ball with a music note stalk and flag <p> Personality: .___________. I like trains. <p> Favorite things EVER: MLP, Soul Eater, symmetry, soft fluffy things, kitties, Quotev, anime, Black Butler, Hetalia, sour candy (like IceBreakers and Warheads), blankets, waking up early, winter <p> Hates: Idiots, squids, barrels, licorice, pink, and Black&star<_>Star <p> Friends: Everypony <p> PFFs: Anypony who says I am, and a couple not at the rp. <p> Crush: Erm, Death the Kid from Soul Eater, Ciel Phantomhive from Black Butler, and Japan from Hetalia. <p> Theme Song: Break by Three Days Grace <p> Battle Song: Black Paper Moon <p> Other: Go to sleep.
Name :: Blue Moon. Everypony calls me Moone. <br> Age :: Ahmah old pony! Nah. 14, though I act older in the RP. <br> Gender :: &female, Mare! <br> Type :: Pegasus <br> Appearance :: Pale indigo blue coat with navy blue eyes with turquoise speckles Twilight style. Powdery gray mane and tail with black streaks longer Fluttershy style. Large spiky-feathered wings with black-tipped feathers. <p> Cutie Mark :: A full blue moon with a four-point star. <br> Talents :: Ice powers and mind manipulation. The ice is a curse and her granny was a unicorn. :/ <br> Status :: Married to White Raven. &hearts <br> Foals :: Erm. . . pfffffft. <br> Friends :: EVERYPONY! :D <br> Likes :: Almost everything. Do not start a converstation with me about fish, fandoms, or movies. You will die from boredom. <br> Dislikes/Fears :: Fire, blindness, and insanity. O.o <br> Theme Song :: Brave by Sara Baralllie(?) <br> Element :: No freakin idea and I don't give a crap. :3 <br> Fanfics/Stories :: I got something for everypony! Just ask! <br> Other :: Ask!